


A Lesson in International Etiquette

by MB234



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Riding, Sassy Men of Letters, Sex, Vampires, Violence, monster killing, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:34:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9923021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MB234/pseuds/MB234
Summary: He was following you.You were sure he thought that he was being stealthy, that he’d underestimated your observational skills, but you could recognize the sleek chrome of that beautiful bike, a Norton Commando by the looks of it, anywhere. Shit, if it had been anyone else you would’ve approached him, tits shamelessly displayed, hips swinging brashly, and asked for a ride in a tone that left little room for dissent. But this was him; a goddamn Brit, and you weren’t exactly positively inclined towards the Commonwealth.Sure, you’d heard the whole “World Without Monster’s” punchline from him and his green eyed friend whose name you couldn’t quite recall, but frankly you weren’t buying what they were selling. Perhaps it was some deep rooted sense of national pride, but the thought of American hunters needing help from their long-lost Daddies sat poorly with you. You and your ilk could handle your monsters just fine, thank you very much.





	1. American Honey

He was following you.

 

You were sure he thought that he was being stealthy, that he’d underestimated your observational skills, but you could recognize the sleek chrome of that beautiful bike, a Norton Commando by the looks of it, anywhere. Shit, if it had been anyone else you would’ve approached him, tits shamelessly displayed, hips swinging brashly, and asked for a ride in a tone that left little room for dissent. But this was _him_ ; a goddamn Brit, and you weren’t exactly positively inclined towards the Commonwealth.

 

Sure, you’d heard the whole “World Without Monster’s” punchline from him and his green eyed friend whose name you couldn’t quite recall, but frankly you weren’t buying what they were selling. Perhaps it was some deep rooted sense of national pride, but the thought of American hunters needing help from their long-lost Daddies sat poorly with you. You and your ilk could handle your monsters just fine, thank you very much.

 

You’d promptly told him to go fuck himself, however in retrospect you’d probably taken a beat too long to reply, and blatant interest had probably sparked a bit too brightly behind your eyes. They did have an insanely impressive arsenal, and those accents….

_Mmm,_ talk about a panty dropper.

 

Not yours though; your lacey numbers would stay firmly on your admittedly luscious ass, no matter how startlingly pretty that friend of his, Mike or Matt or whatever the fuck his name was, eyes had been or how much your fingers had itched to trace the sleek lines of _his_ gun, a high tech number that occasionally peeked out from behind the tailored, obviously moneyed suit jacket that clung to his broad shoulders. Indeed, everything about the lot of them had reeked of superiority, of status, and that pissed you the fuck off.

 

Though nothing annoyed you more than the fact that you were currently hunting a vamp nest all by your lonesome and you kept spotting that fucking bike every time you rounded a corner. Did this Brit, this _Mr. Ketch_ , really think that you couldn’t handle one pitiful nest by yourself? Did he think that you’d make a mistake, leave a loose end? No; vamps were easy, its people that were difficult. Especially smirking, smartly dressed, gun toting British men who didn’t know when to back the hell off. Seriously though, did he expect to gank monsters efficiently in the best that Crockett & Jones had to offer?

 

You sighed, shaking your head as you strode through the small, somewhat shabby downtown that this barely-a-spot-on-the-map had to offer. You’d just finished your afternoon coffee, the perfect people watching cover to scout for cocky vamps that dared to come out into the open of the town square, and were walking back to your car when you caught a flash of something in the side mirror of a powder blue Subaru parked on the curb; a dark, well-tailored suit-like something that had your jaw clenching and your fingers tightening around your car keys. That bastard had the nerve to tail you in public? Creeping after you from town to town was bad enough, now he was stuck to your shoe on your errands too? There was no way in hell that you’d let yourself be followed like one of the monsters you hunted. Enough was enough.

 

With an extra huff in your step you continued walking down the street, aiming straight for the nearby alley way, your footfalls hurried and assured. You rounded the corner into the darkened path, the high brick walls successfully obscuring you from the view of the street. You pressed your back against the brick, settling in one of the shadows playing in the high walls, the cool clay bricks pressing icily into your back. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you sucked in silent, rage filled breaths. You quietly slipped your large knife from its sheath at your hip, where it was safely covered from public view by flannel or cotton. You counted your heart beats anxiously, wagering that your Brit would round the corner behind you in three, two one…

 

Sure enough he followed suit, his steps fast, almost jogging as if he sensed you were trying to lose him. One large hand was curled around his gun, the one you’d been dying to check out. Obviously he sensed something awry. He was right.

 

Before he could react or spot you out of the corner of his eye you darted at him, shifting the knife so that it faced outwards in your grasp and gripping the smooth slip of his lapel in your other fist. Using your momentum and his surprise to your advantage, you flipped him to the opposite wall, slamming his back none-so-gently against the brick. The sharp huff of his breath was music to your ears as you slid the knife against his skin, the blade’s edge pressing keenly against his pulse; a pulse which strangely didn’t seem to have sped up despite his compromised position.

 

You fervently tried to push away the rapidly dawning realizations that not only was he so _much_ bigger than you’d remembered, but his eyes, which had at first glance seemed black, were in fact a deep, stormy green so aphotic they were nearly grey. You could see flecks of true emerald ringing his pupil; such a beautiful color for such a hard man. And damn, was he _hard_ ; this close you could practically feel the strength surging in his immense body, seated in the coil of his shoulders, the thick set of his neck, the clutch of his expansive hands that were raising in surrender. You did like them big…

_No! Don’t lick your lips,_ you commanded yourself as your set about your task once more. You were pissed off, not turned on, damnit! But then again, wasn’t there such a fine line between the two?

 

“Why the hell have you been following me?” you grated out, pleased with how steadfastly angry your voice sounded. No hint of the arousal flaring traitorously in your belly.

 

“So you noticed that, eh?” his accent was even more lilting that you’d remembered, though his friend, Mack, Mark, _what the fuck was his name_ , had done most of the talking during that meeting.

 

“Yes, I fucking noticed, now answer the damn question before your jugular spray decorates this alley way.”

 

“Quite the mouth on you,” he muttered under his breath, though the heat, the near admiration in the statement, and in his eyes, had your stomach doing strange flipping motions low in your belly, “As you might’ve noticed my task here in your country is to recruit hunters, and you are a hunter that the British Men of Letters has shown interest in. I was hoping to observe your technique to better gauge whether you would be cooperative or not,” he emphasized his doubt at said prospective cooperation with a downwards glance at the knife you had pressed against his throat, and with something that was almost embarrassment you relaxed the blade an inch, giving him some room. Oddly, he didn’t look like he’d been disturbed by the threat whatsoever.

 

“Then why didn’t you just approach me instead of making me think you were a stalker on my heels?”

 

“I wanted to observe your habits. Learn your techniques. I see now that this approach was not the most fortuitous.”

 

“No, Mr. Ketch,” you said, anger still coiling hotly in your veins, nearly strong enough to stamp out the lust that had begun to fire through you at the clean, musky masculine scent that was all him, “It really wasn’t. Stay out of my way. If I see your face again..” you trailed off, running your knife against his throat in one last warning. You’d found that sometimes non-verbal threats worked best. To your increasing ire he didn’t look frightened. In fact, he looked almost amused, like a cat watching a fish in a bowl.

 

Pissed off and just reckless enough not to give a damn, you nicked his flesh, right below his adam’s apple, and delighted in the spark of real anger that flared behind his eyes in response.

 

“Don’t fuck with me,” you whispered to him, your face so close to his you could feel the heat of his mouth, the mouth that was no longer smirking.

 

Good, served him right.

 

Turning on your heel, satisfied that you’d left him properly spanked, you practically pranced away, feeling almost _high_ from that tense, charged interaction. It had been awhile since you’d gone toe to toe with what you deemed a worthy adversary, and you came away from it feeling more alive than ever. As you strode away you swore you heard him mutter, “What if that is exactly what I intend to do, love?” but you decided to graciously, democratically, ignore that comment and the heat it left sizzling through your veins.

 

However you couldn’t ignore the way that your body tingled as you felt his eyes, those dark, dark eyes, boring into you from behind, all the way until you were out of sight. You hurriedly climbed in your car and turned your stereo, which was currently spewing Bad Company, all the way to the max. You were amped up, full of something that urged your muscles to clench, your heart to race. You knew there was only one way to dispel this adrenaline, this hot coil of emotion, and push thoughts of that snarky, smart ass Brit out of your head.

_Watch out vamps, it’s hunting season._

 

* * *

 

 

 

You reveled in the hefty swing of your machete, in the powerful bite of its sharp edge. Heads rolled beneath the flick of your wrist, eyes deadened and fangs retracted. You heard hisses from all around you but by your count you had finished off six of the ten. That meant four left.

 

Your careful steps barely echoed in the halls of the long abandoned warehouse you were currently traversing, the ground zero for this nest. Figured though, vamps liked dark, secluded places and you couldn’t get more hermetic, or dingy, than this. Many of the glass windows were long broken, letting in the howling wind in long, moaning gusts. This place was fucking creepy, but then again so were these monsters.

 

Suddenly one jumped out at you, stupidly revealing its hiding place and sealing its fate. Within a matter of seconds it was a pile of flesh and bones on the floor, the last mark it felt on this earth a puddle of cooling vamp blood.

 

Seven down three to go. You flicked a willful strand of hair that had managed to escape your high ponytail from your eyes, wiping the sweat beading down your forehead on one arm, eager to get this over with. The sooner these monsters were dead the sooner your ass would be getting trashed at the nearest bar, and quite possibly getting lucky. It’d been awhile since you’d had any action to write home about and you would need somewhere to direct all this post hunt adrenaline. Hot, nameless, wild sex was your most favorite way to do just that.

 

Your fingers curled anticipatorily around the hilt of your blade, itching, anxious. “Come on, bastards,” You muttered under your breath, “Come and get me.”

 

As if on cue all three remaining vamps came forward, their ghastly teeth bared and their short, wicked claws out. They circled like vultures, eyeing your neck, the juncture of your arms, your wrist, all the places where your pulse pounded the strongest, all the places they could attack. Fat lot of good it’d do them, you’d taken the precaution of injecting a healthy dose of dead man’s blood in your veins. One bite and theses suckers would drop like rocks, writhing on the floor, just begging to be decapitated.

 

You smirked at the nearest one and beckoned it with a crook of your finger and a tilt of your head. And suddenly they were on you, hissing and clawing and biting, trying their damndest to take you down. You swung mightily, measuredly, and delighted in the delicious sounds of heads rolling. When the red cleared from your vision you glanced down at your prizes, smirking slightly.

 

Wait…

 

Two heads? Hadn’t there been three vamps? _Oh shit,_ you thought as you heard movement behind you, a slight shuffling of feet that told you it was preparing to pounce. You braced, grasping your machete and whirling, only to see claws swiping at you, raised and glinting in the low light. Running on pure instinct you leapt back, but they grazed your middle, slashing the skin below the wire of your bra, and you could tell in an instant that your quick motions had rendered the cuts barely skin deep, though they still smarted like hell.

 

Cursing, you prepared to swing your machete only to see the pallid gleam of a blade flashing suddenly behind the vamps head, the wicked knife it belonged to coming to rest at the vamps throat just a moment later. The creature stilled instantly, eyes wild, fangs bared, claws dripping with your blood.

 

“There, there my boy,” Mr. Ketch’s smooth, accented voice rang in the quiet of the warehouse, lilting over the howl of the wind and the creaking of old chains, “is that any way to treat a lady?”

 

Through your shock at seeing him here despite your adamant warnings to kindly fuck off you could acknowledge the healthy modicum of gratitude filling your chest at his presence, the much needed break allowing you to slump against a nearby crate and clutch your bleeding wound. Though it wasn’t deep, the upper layers of skin tended to bleed heavily, making it look much worse than it actually was. Some antiseptic, most likely in the form of the whiskey sitting on the dresser in your motel room, and some bandages and you’d be good as new. With your wound assessed, you turned your attention back to Mr. Ketch and the vampire he had at the end of his blade. He was staring at the creature with mild disinterest, as if this were as tedious as picking up milk from the grocery store. In a way you assumed for him it was, especially if these damned Brits were as prolific as they claimed.

 

“Look at me,” he said, his voice almost bored as he taunted the vamp, “Look who brings your death,” the creatures eyes flicked to the ancient looking cross tattooed on the back Ketch’s hand and it snarled before stilling once more.

 

You’d heard rumors that this Mr. Ketch was a psychopath, that he was slightly unhinged, but you couldn’t quite picture it, couldn’t quite see it in your mind’s eye until now, as his dark, forest green eyes glinted with malicious, calculating rage and his lips curled into a cold sneer just before he slid his machete through the vamps neck, the cut as unhampered as a hot knife through butter. The creatures head tumbled to the ground, followed momentarily by its lifeless body, the weighted, fleshy _whomps_ the only sounds that rang in the dank warehouse.

 

After watching the vamp fall Ketch’s gaze fell on you, those dark eyes intense and stormy as they drank you in. You swore you could almost see _lust_ glinting sharply in his gaze as he swept that rapt stare up and down your form, the heat that answered within your body from his petting gaze staggering you with its strength. You wondered briefly what you looked like, hair thrown up in a haphazard ponytail atop your head, loose strands sticking to your neck, skin gleaming with a fresh sheen of sweat, chest heaving as you licked your lips. Would he find you captivating this way, fresh from a hunt, with vamps blood splattered on your skin and blood lust in your eyes? The answering gleam in his dark gaze told you _yes_ , he found you utterly captivating like this.

_Post hunt adrenaline,_ you chided yourself, fiercely adamant that this, whatever it was, was nothing more than that simple explanation. Two hunters high on the good fight.

 

Then why did you feel the need see what else he could do with those long fingers, those smirking lips, that refined tongue. Why did you want to know how many vamps he’d killed and watch his chest huff with exertion as he took on a werewolf. Why did he suddenly look traitorously delicious to you now?

 

“Were you trying to kill it or make out with it?” you grated in a pain roughened voice as you began to stand uneasily, eager to dispel the carnal thoughts running through your head and the heavy tension filing the dank space, “I couldn’t tell for a second there. I don’t usually give a fuck unless it puts my ass on the line,” you said gesturing to your bleeding middle.

 

To your immense relief a smile curved his lips, lips that suddenly looked leagues more inviting, and he sheathed his blade in a previously unseen holster hanging from his belt, striding over to aid your rise. The fingers he wrapped around the uninjured portion of your waist were dry and warm, and that simple touch sent tingles skittering down your spine. Inwardly cursing your reactions to him, you looped your arm around the shoulder he had lowered in offering, trying hard to ignore the thick coil of muscle that roiled beneath your fingers, and leaned into him as he helped you rise.

 

“I’ll take that as an American thank you,” he said, a smile coloring his voice as he began to lead you to his car, “You’re quite welcome. Though I was impressed by the talent you showed here tonight. You had the situation quite in hand. Well, up until the end that is.”

 

Despite your annoyance at his somewhat backhanded compliment you found yourself laughing lightly, “Yeah, yeah, I’m just surprised your ascot didn’t get in the way.”

 

“Actually this is a windsor knot t-” he began but you cut him off with a sharp squeeze to the shoulder and an exasperated exhale.

 

“I know the difference between an ascot and a tie, dickwad! Jesus Christ…” this time he chuckled, the way the sound hummed in his chest doing interesting things to the knot coiling in your lower belly.

 

You passed the quick journey to your humble lodgings, a room at the Motel Six at the edge of town, in pleasant conversation about weapons, a conversation you’d started when you’d asked where his “fancy vampire vaporizer” was. He was hasty and eager to fill you in on the details, and proper name, of that weapon and the countless others he had in his arsenal. You assumed this was a standard part of the sales pitch, and even though you resented it you couldn’t stem your curiosity about him and his resources.

 

“Do you have the necessary medical supplies to tend to your wound?” he asked once you’d stopped in front of your section of the Motel.

 

“Whiskey, check. Bandages, check. I’m all good,” you said, just barely suppressing a groan as you shifted to get out of the vehicle.

 

“You _aren’t_ serious,” he said, his tone incredulous.

 

“Quite,” you replied, mocking his accent teasingly as you shifted in the plush leather seat. When he didn’t reply, you realized he was staring agape in obvious horror, and not for the first time today you felt something akin to embarrassment creep up your neck due to him and his impossibly high British standards. At your sudden silence and lack of ability to meet his eyes he seemed to decide upon his next course of action.

 

“Alright, I’m coming in to tend to you. Let me grab my medical kit.”

 

“No, really, that’s completely unnecessary, I swear-“ he cut you off with the curt slam of his door, leaving you to sigh heavily, his footsteps sure and decided as he retrieved a black briefcase from the trunk and came around to your side. He opened the passenger’s side door, and you peered up at him, stubbornness coloring your features. He extended a hand to help you stand but in your rebelliousness you hung onto the door frame for support instead. You swear you saw him smirk as you passed him on unsteady feet, but you pushed aside the pleasure blooming in your chest at that, focusing instead on digging your room key out of your jeans pocket.

 

You felt the heat of his body, warm and immense, as he stood behind you at the door. You took a moment longer than was necessary to unlock the door, happy to bask in his heat for just a few extra seconds. That post hunt adrenaline was singing through your veins, heightening everything from the lamplight filtering in the thin curtains hanging on the windows to the way the cut of Ketch’s jaw had you biting back a sigh. Judging by the gleam in his dark eyes he’d caught it, and his smirk widened in response.

 

“Alright let’s get this over with,” you huffed, turning away from him so that he wouldn’t see the blush deepening on your cheeks. You flicked on a few lights as you strode about, casting a warm glow around the room. Standing close to the lamp on the nightstand, facing away from the small table that Ketch was currently setting up his medical station on, you drew up your shirt to assess the vamp’s damage. There were three light marks raking from one side of your middle to the other, and though they had bled profusely you were sure that with time and care they’d heal without a mark. For that you were thankful; your body already sported a myriad of scars, and you weren’t keen on adding another one to the mix just yet.

 

“Ready when you are,” he said from behind you, nearly making you start from your thoughts of old wounds from monster fights long past. You cleared your throat and crossed to the mini fridge, drawing out two cold beers and striding to the table. As you moved to the chair closest to his you caught sight of him, and for just a moment your breath caught harshly in your throat.

 

He’d stripped off his jacket and tie, leaving him in just that crisp dress shirt, unbuttoned for good, tempting measure, sleeves rolled up on his thickly muscled arms, and his loose slacks as he lounged in that chair with all the grace of a panther; predatory, beautiful. The shed clothes had revealed glimpses of more tattoos; what looked like a wing peeking out from his left forearm, and what could be its twin on the right; an unidentifiable crest creeping from behind the buttons on his dress shirt. Suddenly you were filled with the thrumming urge to sit in his lap and trace those intricate designs with your fingers, and then your tongue, exploring the other secrets hidden beneath his uptight getup. Those wicked tats, combined with the undeniable badassness of his kill and the cocktail of self-preserving chemicals rushing through your veins had you clearing your throat loudly to stem the low moan of want that threatened to slip from your lips as you twisted the cap of your beer off and took a hearty swig.

 

“Ready,” you announced after draining half of the bottle, shifting uneasily when he leaned forward to grasp the hem of your blood soaked t shirt.

 

“May I?” he asked quietly, his voice low and almost throaty, his fingers hesitating near the clasp of your jeans, skirting the low hem of your shirt. You nodded twice, your hands clasping your beer, bringing it up to your lips once more as those slender fingers probed at your wound, tracing lightly over dried blood. His touch was tinged with perfunctory purpose, but there was something else flashing behind his eyes…appreciation maybe, or more accurately admiration.

 

And suddenly those slender fingers were gone, preparing a swab of peroxide to swipe the blood away and cleanse the scratches, which only smarted lightly at the touch of the cleansing chemicals. You drained your beer, plunking it down on the table as you swallowed, grimacing slightly at the sour taste.

 

“What do you usually do after a hunt?” you asked, desperate for a reprieve from the pain, and more importantly from the heated carnal thoughts rushing through your mind.

 

“Well, I’ll help a bit with cleanup and disposal, and then I’ll write up a formal report for the Organization. I might celebrate by cleaning my weapons.”

 

You waited for him to elaborate, to add on something, _anything,_ but he didn’t. “Really,” you prompted, glancing at his handsome, concentrated features that were transfixed upon your midriff, “That’s it?”

 

“That’s it,” he affirmed, his tone distant as he wiped away caked blood, “Why, what do you do?”

 

You grinned, sighing as you remembered countless nights of celebratory debauchery, some of which included the Winchesters. “Well,” you began, cracking open that second beer, settling your sock feet into the empty space in his chair,  wedged beside his right hip, steadfastly ignoring the questioning looks he threw your way, “Us American hunters celebrate with libations. Preferably of the whiskey variety. The more the merrier.”

 

“So you get snookered?” Ketch asked in an amused tone as he began to tape bandages onto your healing flesh. You noticed the bandages had some sort of rune work ingrained in the ply of the cotton; some kind of accelerated healing spell work maybe?

 

“Well, in a word, yeah,” you scowled at the judgement in his tone, “What’s wrong with that?”

 

“Oh, nothing...” he paused, the ensuing silence heavily laden with unspoken meaning. You continued staring until finally he looked up briefly from his work to question, “But there are no reports, no one to formally address?”

 

“Hell no,” you scoffed, gulping heavily from your beer before you replied, “Damn, you British are so uptight! Do you ever let loose? Have fun?”

 

Ketch glanced up, seeming to consider carefully before he replied, “Well I do on occasion enjoy a nice glass of Lagavulin and a good cigar.”

 

You paused in disbelief before you replied, “Oh no that’s so boring it’s almost sad. We’ll have to celebrate properly then. Get good and smashed after a hunt together sometime, American style. Though, preferably when I’m not sporting a vampy love tat.”

 

Ketch finished taping your wound and sat back in his chair surveying his work, you, appraisingly, “It’s a deal, then.”

 

“Good,” you replied, grinning as you rose and slipped the blood stained shirt over your head, your back to him as you dug hastily through your duffel, your fingers closing quickly around a black tank top. Once that was on in place of the ruined t shirt you snagged another two beers from the fridge and plopped back down into your chair, cracking them both open and pushing one towards him, “Until then, let’s celebrate a bit more mildly.”

  
For a moment you were worried that Ketch might not accept, but finally his long, slender fingers closed around the sweating bottle and he smiled warmly at you before you raised yours in offering.

 

“Thank you,” you said, catching his gaze as you clinked your bottles together. He held your eyes for a moment and then canted his head in a graceful nod. Damn, sometimes he was just so sophisticated, regal even. You drank fast and hard, wanting the alcohol to embolden you, to lift some of the crushing tension off of your shoulders, alleviate the warmth of attraction crackling in the air between you.

 

“You know our British hunters don’t usually suffer from raging alcoholism,” Ketch began, surveying the label on the bottle he cradled in one large hand, “But I’ll be damned if a stiff drink after a kill isn’t satisfying.”

  
“Right!” you crooned, leaning forwards in your seat, choosing to ignore the jab in the former part of his sentence for the complement in the latter, “I’m telling you, a night at the bar after a good, successful hunt is a damn good way to let off some steam. It’s a close second to…” you trailed off suddenly, biting your lip hard to stem the flow of words that had threatened to tumble from your mouth. _It’s a close second to riding your way to ecstasy on the lap of a stranger. Work off that adrenaline properly._

_Fuck,_ just thinking that while sitting this close to Ketch had your body thrumming, wanton lust sitting low in your belly, making your cheeks flush and your throat tighten. Suddenly your mind was filled with thoughts of riding _him_ , of slipping into that chair, working the buttons of that dress shirt loose, running your tongue down his chest. _Mmm…_

 

You took another hearty swig to cover the groan that stumbled from your throat, but you couldn’t stop your eyes from darting to the thick lines of his neck, or from running down his chest straight to the seat of his lap, your gaze practically stripping him where he sat.

 

“It’s a close second to what,” he prompted, that hungry, predatory, gleam in his dark eyes once more, his gaze glinting wickedly as he leaned forwards, bracing those beefy forearms on his spread knees, “Because I can think of a few, more naughty ways to  ‘let off some steam’, as you say.”

 

Oh _fuck_ , he did not just say that. _Jesus_ , that deep accented voice crooning those wicked words almost had you whimpering like a fool, but damn you didn’t want him to stop. You could play ball too…

 

“Oh yeah,” you hummed in response, leaning forwards, matching his stance as you licked your lips, “Like what?”

 

“Like my tongue running up your naked thighs, teasing your sensitive flesh, nipping your exposed skin,” _Jesus_ , the man had a way with words, “Like my mouth at your ear while I slip inside you slowly, achingly. I guarantee you that would do the trick.”

 

That damn smirk of his was driving you crazy, taunting you, pushing you. Alright old sport, game fucking on…

 

Before you could stop yourself you were up, crossing to him in a few measured steps, bracing an arm on either side of his chair and leaning in to press your mouth hotly against his. He responded instantly, those huge hands wrapping low around your slim back, cupping the curve of your ass as your lips tangled, your tongue tracing the outline of his full bottom lip as you groaned softly, wantonly against his lips. “Stop talking,” you murmured against his mouth, threading your fingers in his thick hair, pulling him closer, “An American lesson; put up or shut up.”

 

“Yes ma’am,” he murmured against your lips, causing wicked shivers to erupt on your skin, sending sharp tingles racing down your spine. You wanted to hear his moans as you rode him, hear his posh curses as you slipped wetly along his shaft, bouncing wildly in his lap. You needed that, and you needed it _now._

You worked the clasp of your suddenly stifling jeans with impatient fingers, huffing against his seeking lips in annoyance, only to feel it come undone beneath the onslaught of your digits a moment later. His hands were on your waist then, pushing the denim down the sleek lines of your legs, helping as you stepped out of them. As soon as they were discarded on the floor those long fingers were tracing the intricate tattoo that graced your hip; vivid, lifelike roses scattered from your hip bone to the top of your thigh. The piece had cost a small fortune and taken multiple trips to the chair, but you were proud of it, and evidently so was Ketch.

 

“Do you approve?” you questioned with a raised eyebrow, loving the admiration banked in his eyes. You knew he could tell that it had been a painful, grueling process to get the artwork on your body, but somehow you sensed that this only made him admire you more.

 

“Quite,” he answered with a breathtaking smile before those lips were on yours once more and his fingers were wrapping around your bared thighs, hauling you into his lap, pushing your hips methodically against the rigid, throbbing steel of his hard cock.

 

You gasped against his mouth when you felt just how big he was; hot and hard against the slick lace of your panties, a fitting match to the rest of his bulky frame, and your belly quivered with molten want. You’d wanted a proper lay, and you now realized you were about to get it. You wanted it rough and dirty and right fucking now.

 

You broke away from his lips for just a moment to trail your hot mouth down his neck, nipping and sucking your way to the hollow of his throat, your fingers slipping to the buttons of his dress shirt, popping them open as your tongue slipped along his warm, firm skin. He tasted like spice and leather and something else, something all masculine strength that had your sex clenching wetly.

 

He was so big that you barely had to shift to reach his chest, but his hands slotted into your hair to help aid your ministrations nonetheless. You groaned when those deft fingers of his tore out the hair tie securing your locks atop your head, and you growled low in your throat when he replaced the band with the tight ring of his fist, that grasp so stunningly erotic, you found yourself clenching your thighs tightly around his hips.

 

You realized then that what turned this monolith of a man on was power; exchanging it, playing with it, possessing it, losing it. He was a junkie that traded in control, in domination. And he’d just met his match.

 

You raised your mouth from his chest to capture his lips once more, and with conscious motions you began to rock your weeping sex against the steel bar of his throbbing cock, knowing it would drive him crazy. Sure enough a low, need driven moan ripped from his throat, and you smiled against his lips, knowing you had just secured your place of power in this transaction.

 

You reached for the clasp of his belt, loving the gentle metal tinkle that the parts made as you tore it out of the way. You hastily undid the clasp of his pants, drawing the throbbing length of him out into your waiting palm.

 

“What do you want,” you murmured against his mouth, nipping none so gently at his full bottom lip as you crooned, “Tell me.”

 

He growled and bucked his hips up, sliding the thick, throbbing length of his cock further into your tight grasp, “I think that’s quite evident, darling,” you couldn’t stop the giggles that erupted from your lips at that, loving the way his proper accent clashed deliciously with the naked need in his voice.

 

“I want to hear you say it,” you whispered wickedly, your tongue flicking out against the delicate shell of his ear, “Tell me you want to fuck me.”

 

“The mouth on you, you naughty minx,” he groaned, palming your ass hard with both of his large hands, “I want to fuck you raw, make you feel me for days,” he growled against your exposed neck, his teeth biting, his tongue curling against your skin. You gasped, bucking your hips automatically, arousal driving your fervent actions.

 

Not wanting to wait anymore, you drew aside the soaked material of your panties and lined up the crown of his cock with your sex, slipping the head along your soaked entrance. You weren’t sure you could fit all of his generous length, but you were sure as hell gonna enjoy trying.

 

“More,” he grated, using his hands on your ass to lower you onto his throbbing shaft, inch by blessed inch. You gasped, writhing against him, panting hotly against his neck.

 

“Fuck,” You groaned low as he bottomed out, the fit so tight you could perceive him throbbing inside of you. Your ragged breaths rattled from your heaving chest, your skin slicked with a fresh layer of perspiration, your loose hair tumbling about your shoulders. His mouth was kissing patterns up your neck, along the line of your jaw, his fingers flexing eagerly against the flesh of your ass.

 

“Move on me love,” he commanded, a devil at your ear, words hot against your skin. You were helpless to do anything but obey, craving the slick slide of him, huge and throbbing, inside of you, wanting his groans against your skin.

 

You snapped your hips up, moving up the length of his cock, before lowering yourself down, slowly and deliciously. You repeated your motions countless times, the friction sparking from your bodies sweetening the slide of him inside you. After the long, sweet, slow fucks of your pussy on him, Ketch decided to take matters into his own hands, gripping your hips tightly and slamming you down quicker, more forcefully onto his waiting cock.

 

“Ketch!” you cried out, holding onto his  wide shoulders as he repeated this teeth-chattering motion, vigorously bucking his own hips up to meet yours as he worked your pliant body over him. Suddenly the dirtiness, the wicked neediness of your fucking struck you full force, causing your pussy to clench in a wet rush around his cock, and your nails to bite deeper into his shoulders.

 

You felt him smile against your neck as he began to piston his hips in earnest, the speed and intensity of his thrusts delighting you. His hips bumped your clit with each bruising thrust, spearing pleasure straight to your core. You let your head fall back, your hair brushing your ass, as you effectively became putty in his arms, giving your body over to his wants, to his needs.

 

Your belly clenched powerfully, hotly, warning you of your impending orgasm, just as one of Ketch's calloused hands ripped the neckline of your tank top down and his hot lips captured the hard bud of your nipple in his molten mouth, biting and sucking as you slipped along his length. You cursed and moaned as he moved to the other one, his teeth sinfully rough against your flushed skin, his tongue flicking wickedly at your sensitive flesh. When he released you his gaze remained rapt on your bouncing breasts, his long fingers tightening almost painfully against your hips, his cock pulsing harder inside you.

 

Pain, pleasure, friction, wetness; all sensations blurred together, capped by the deliciously naughty sound of your skin slapping, your bodies meeting, and suddenly, without warning you were cumming, dirty, filthy words slipping from your lips as you came undone in his arms, your sex clenching powerfully around his cock.

 

Ketch snarled at your neck, his momentous control snapping as you felt him follow suit, cumming suddenly inside you, spurned no doubt by the gripping force and stunning immediacy of your own orgasm, rope after rope of hot, powerful release jetting inside you, leaving you a dripping, mewling mess in his lap.

 

Then the after shudders; your breaths panting against his damp neck, your thighs loosening around his hips, his fingers sweeping the hair off your neck, slipping down the notches of your spine. For a few moments you imagined you felt a kind of peace here in his arms; after all, this was the best fuck you’d had in ages, endorphins were bound to get released right along-side your thundering orgasm. But then you shook yourself hard and began to ease him out of you, fixing your panties as you rose on shaky legs to grab your long discarded jeans. This was just like any other one night stand; it didn’t matter that he stared into your eyes as he eased that beautiful cock inside you or called you ‘love’ while he palmed your ass. You would treat this just like any other booty call, despite what you felt blooming in your chest.

 

“I must say, that was quite different from the British way,” Ketch sighed after he'd tucked himself back into his pants, his tone satisfied but his eyes rapt on your body even though he’d just had you, his gaze following the long motions of your limbs as you drew your jeans arduously up your legs.

 

“Oh yeah?” you asked absently, shimmying your hips to draw your jeans over your curves, a smile flitting uncontrollably at your lips as you realized that he’d been right; you’d feel him for days.

 

“If I had a way of contacting you I could arrange to show you how we do it in the Commonwealth.”

 

Your fingers paused at the clasp of your jeans, your eyes flying up to meet his, which at the moment seemed more green than black, filled with more warmth than cold. Wait a minute, was he…

 

“Are you asking for my number?” you choked out, incredulous. After a moment that smirk morphed into a smile, and you swear your heart fucking skipped a beat.

 

“Well, yes I believe I am,” Ketch said, his long legs stretched out before him, his arms resting relaxed in his lap. Did you just fuck this man right into domestication?

 

“Another American lesson,” you said sweetly as you leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips before looking him in those captivating eyes, “You can’t always get what you want.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time you’d pranced away, out of the cradle of his sturdy thighs, leaving him with a slightly slacked jaw and an appreciative gleam in his eyes, and indulged in a much needed hot shower, you’d returned to an empty motel room and a deeply satisfied body.

  
Alone, exhausted, and utterly spent in all the right ways, you climbed into the starchy sheets, leaving worries of how exactly you’d retrieve your car and why this confusing, attractive man would want a round two with you for tomorrow, when your body wasn’t buzzing and your head wasn’t whirling with memories of tattooed skin and accents whispering naughty words in your ear.

 

The next morning, after finishing off the dregs of the beers still on the table and scrounging for any leftovers that were in the mini fridge, you dressed and began to prepare for the 3 some odd mile long trek to your car. Every so often you’d glance at the chair, _that_ chair, that sat innocently at the table, as if it hadn’t just been the catalyst for your cataclysmic night, and bite your lip, remembered heat flushing low in your body.

 

You were so distracted when you left the motel room, pulling the door shut behind you, that you nearly walked past your car, parked nonchalantly in the space right in front of your door. You stared at it warily, scanning your surroundings for anything amiss, but except for a few rowdy teens blowing up bottle rockets in the far corner of the parking lot the area was totally dead.

 

You slipped your keys out of your pocket, and as you unlocked the front door you noticed a bottle in the drivers seat with a note attached to it. Upon closer inspection you identified it as Lagavulin.

 

Ketch.

 

Of course he’d hot-wired your car. _Asshole._

 

Despite your annoyance at the violation of your baby, you couldn’t stem the warmth that bloomed in your chest at the care this gesture showed. You gazed fondly at the whiskey, truly the only acceptable gift, and read the note, which looked suspiciously like it’d come from an expensive, official stationary. Of fucking course.

 

_If you ever want a lesson in British customs of copulation, I’d be more than happy to oblige. Until next time._

 

_\- K_

 

Scrawled at the bottom of the note was what could be nothing other than the British Man of Letters phone number. Smiling like an idiot, you took your gifts inside with you, pouring a hearty glass and sipping happily. Maybe it had been a one night stand, but perhaps you hadn’t mistaken that heat in his eyes, that intensity in his voice as he’d murmured wicked words to you, that possessive grasp of his hands at your neck, your waist, your thighs.

 

And maybe, just maybe, you’d give him a call. Right after you finished your whiskey.


	2. For Love of God and Country

  

You were in  _deep_  shit.

 

 

You were one woman facing an unexpectedly gigantic nest, alone, exhausted and cornered with a machete splattered with vamps blood clutched in your sweating fingers and half a syringe of dead man’s blood in your jacket pocket. Oh, and there were a shit ton more vampires here than you’d originally thought. Like twenty to thirty more. In other words, you were totally, royally, utterly fucked.

 

 

Swearing under your breath, your chest heaving as you sucked in exasperated breaths, you ducked quickly into a darkened hallway that sat near the outer edges of the long abandoned factory in which this mega nest had holed up, treading carefully so that your booted feet wouldn’t alert any creatures to your unwelcome presence. Backing cautiously into a small nook in the wall, you fervently thanked your lucky stars that you had found a shadowed, quiet corner to collect yourself in.

 

 

All of your previous intel had told you that this nest was ten to fifteen strong, tops. Nests of that size you could handle with the simple yet effective strategy of isolate and exterminate, but a nest of thirty vamps? Even you weren’t brazen enough to think that you could make it out of those odds with all your pride and your limbs still intact. How the hell had you made such a colossal miscalculation?

 

 

You hastily ran through the layout of this building in your mind, the floorplans for which you’d meticulously studied, mentally cataloging all possible exits. Of the multiple escape routes, only one or two were clear enough that you could slip out undetected, but how many vamps could you take out before you were noticed?

 

 

At that moment you heard footsteps, two or three individuals judging by the sound of it, striding past your hiding spot, making your body freeze and your heart seize fearfully in your chest. That abrupt spear of fright that slid down your spine pissed you off momentously; these monsters should be afraid of  _you,_  they should be skulking in the shadows, pissing themselves as they realized their ends were nigh. Shaking your head, your ponytail swinging about your neck, you gripped your machete more tightly in your fist and reached for the vial of dead man’s blood in your pocket.

 

_Screw it_ ; you’d go in guns blazing, ready and rearing for a fight. And if you didn’t make it out, well the devil couldn’t say you hadn’t tried.

 

 

 

Just as you began to stride out of your hiding spot, a foreign presence made itself known behind you, causing sharp, icy tendrils of panic to slide down your neck.  Suddenly one brawny arm wrapped low around your waist, the long, slender fingers that pulled you against an expanse of broad, firm chest breaking you quite successfully from your kamikaze tinged thoughts. Your first thought was  _vamp_ , and your grip on your machete tightened reflexively in preparation to strike with the heel of one hand and maim with the blade in the other, but when the sharp sting of teeth sinking into your neck never came you glanced down, catching as much of an outline as the dim light would allow of an ancient looking cross tattooed on the back the invading person’s large hand that was pressed flat against your stomach. Oh  _fuck_ , you knew that tattoo, and it could only mean….

 

 

 

"That might not be the best idea, love," Ketch's smooth, accented voice crooned in your ear, the smug smirk you could hear tugging at the corner of his lips almost  _palpable_  in his tone, “There are quite a lot of them lurking out there, and even a hunter as skilled as yourself might lose against those odds.”

 

 

"Oh fuck," you grated as you shook your head in exasperation, your panic dissolving into something just as molten and urgent but notably less sharp, "What the hell are you doing here, Ketch?"

 

 

“Oh I’ve missed that naughty mouth of yours,” he whispered heatedly against your neck, the admiration in his voice sending pleasant tingles skittering down your spine, his breath sinfully hot against the shell of your ear, his lips so close to your skin you could nearly feel their warmth, “I’m doing my job love, though you’ve been an immense help in the endeavor to exterminate all Mid-Western Vampires from America.”

 

 

Unconsciously your jaw slackened at the sheer, almost stupidly ambitious brevity of his statement, the surety in his voice making you momentarily reconsider the formidability of these British Men of Letters. “Exterminate all vamps in the Mid-West?” you whispered back fervently, glancing over your shoulder in an attempt to gauge the seriousness of his statement by the expression gracing his admittedly handsome features. What you could glimpse had you warily convinced of his deadly seriousness. “Damn,” you scoffed, uncontrollable impression coloring your tone, “Well no one can say you Brits don’t have some big balls. Good luck with that one.”

 

 

“Oh but you haven’t seen our plans, darling,” Ketch replied, his accented voice thrumming low so as not to attract the attention of any vamps wandering nearby, “When the British Men of Letters endeavor to do something they do it fully and to completion,” his tantalizing, innuendo drenched words sparked sizzling memories of tattooed skin flexing beneath your seeking fingers and hungry mouth, of his hands firm and hot on your hips as his deliciously ample shaft slipped achingly, expertly, inside your weeping sex, of that very same voice whispering accented praises in your ear. Gasping softly, remembered lust firing to life low in your belly, you shifted against him, pressing further into his steady grasp even as you angrily chided the uncontrollable responses that this devil of a man wrought from your all too pliant body. The smirk you felt curving against your hair told you that he recognized these reactions you had to him, and that he was more than likely encouraging them.

 

 

“Though I must say you have been a force to be reckoned with,” Ketch continued, obvious appreciation coloring his tone, “Did you know that you have single handedly taken out nearly a third of all cataloged vampires in the region?” you raised your eyebrows in surprise at that, impressed with your own prolific slaughtering. You  _had_  been busy lately, fervently killing monsters to try and stem the thoughts of Ketch that had refused to stop racing through your mind when things were quiet, but it wasn’t exactly like you kept track of each creature you’d sent into the great beyond. But apparently Ketch, and the Men of Letters, had. “Maybe that’s why you haven’t called me.”

 

 

That emotion that this aggravating, irresistible man seemed to always draw out in you, the one that hovered dangerously close to embarrassment, flitted hotly in your stomach as your cheeks flushed furiously. You could admit to yourself that you were somewhat abashed at the fact that he’d blatantly touch upon your abject refusal to cave and call him to come over and fuck you until you couldn’t walk, even though there had been countless times that you’d wanted to do just that. In the weeks since you’d seen him you had given other lovers a half-hearted try, but really, after Ketch they all just seemed lacking.

 

 

“I-I haven’t, well I didn’t-” you stuttered furiously, more flustered than you would have liked to admit at his blatant reveal of your seeming lack of interest in him. For some reason it was suddenly direly important to convince him that the truth was just the opposite. “It’s not like that. I’ve been busy,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at him with a gentle smile, turning on some charm to try and sweet talk him away from ire, “I  _have_  missed you, you know,” you finished softly, leaning heavily against the warmth of his body, noting with a healthy amount of pleasure that his breaths seemed to have stopped, as if he were holding them.

 

 

“It’s no matter love,” he said after a slightly shaky exhale that fanned hotly over the exposed skin on the back of your neck, “In fact, I rather think you deserve a show of thanks. For your civic duty and all that,” as he spoke the expansive hand that was wrapped around your waist began to travel down the taught panes of your stomach, those slender fingers brushing the belt that sat low on your hips, tracing teasing lines along the cut muscles of your belly, covertly loosening the offending leather and undoing the clasp of your jeans.

 

 

“What the hell are you-” you began in a fervent whisper, a measured amount of unbridled lust seeping into your tone, though your words were cut off by a small moan when those seeking fingers dipped into the loosened band of your pants and cupped the suddenly aching flesh of your sex over the silky slip of your panties, that one, simple touch sending hot, molten need scorching through you.

 

 

“I have so missed your delicious body,” he crooned at your ear before you could protest halfheartedly, all thoughts of _but we’re on a hunt_ , or snarky remarks of _was this a part of your mission dossier_ fleeing from your mind as that wicked accent saying those naughty, naughty words sent hot, wicked lust skittering through you.

 

 

Unable to stop yourself, mind foggy with pure, _hot_ arousal, you found your legs spreading for him, to give him better access to your most sensitive flesh, your weapon hanging forgotten in your lax fingers, all of your attention on him and the shattering sensations he was wringing from your pliant body. You  _knew_ that he was bad news, you  _knew_  that he could very well be playing you, but at this moment you didn’t fucking care. You hadn’t gotten off properly in weeks, and he was just so damn  _big_ , his body hot and huge at your back, his chest curving around you, his arms like iron bands on your body, his long fingers petting your wet sex expertly. And God help you, you actually had fucking missed him.

 

 

“F-fuck!” you whispered shakily, your back bowing sharply when those taunting fingers slipped inside your panties, those seeking fingers spurring you to internally thank every god in existence that could possibly be listening that you’d had the foresight to shave _everything_ earlier that day, moaning as his digits began circling your throbbing clit almost lazily, dipping into the rushing wetness at your core to flick and rub just right.  _Goddamn,_  your body really seemed to bow to his expert touch, as if it had been waiting for him, as if he was the only one who could wring such potent sensations from it.

 

 

“Bloody hell, you are so damned  _responsive_ ,” he husked against your neck, those hot lips pressing hard against your skin, “You bring something out in me that I just can’t seem to fucking control,” you could certainly tell from the hard rod of pulsing manhood that pressed urgently into your lower back, from the driving push of his hips against your ass, from the way he was rocking that hard shaft into the giving warmth of your body, in the hard press of his hand that wasn’t currently teasing your sex, but was pressed against your upper waist, fingers just barely brushing your straining breasts. You moaned a bit too loudly when he slipped one long, sturdy digit into your tight heat, the finger sinking easily through your throbbing flesh. In response he quickly moved the arm that was positioned under your chest up to your mouth, his forearm nestled between your breasts, his large palm clamping over your mouth, leaving just your nose exposed.

 

 

“That must be the last sound you make, love,” he whispered hotly at your ear, his tone amused but tinged with perfunctory warning. The delightfully naughty combination made your head spin and your sex pulse against his touch, your breasts pushing up in search of some of the delicious friction sparking from his hands on you, “I'm enjoying the feel of your greedy sex clenching around me far too much to risk being interrupted.”

 

 

Oh  _fuck_ , he really did have a way with words that made you just fucking melt for him. You groaned silently against his hand, loving the dominance that he showed now, letting him take the upper hand in your current power driven exchange, eagerly craving more of his consuming touch. Suddenly his hot, wet mouth closed around the lobe of your ear just as the finger he had slipped inside you began to move, and you swear for a moment you saw stars dance behind your eyelids.

 

The blessed, molten friction was almost too much for you to handle, and just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore he slid another finger deep inside your tight heat. He made sure that the heel of his palm rubbed hard against your clit as he worked his fingers in and out of your throbbing pussy, the slight _slicking_ sounds of your wet sex the loudest things echoing through the hall. The harsh huffs of your breath and the moans of his name that fell from your lips were successfully muffled by the hand he had clenched around your mouth, and you found yourself nearing release for the first time since you’d cum so spectacularly on his lap.

 

 

You groaned his name once more, writhing in his arms as you let your head fall back against his shoulder, going up on your tip toes, rocking with the motions of his hand as he began to thrust those fingers deeper, more forcefully into your waiting sex. One of your hands reached back to grasp his ass firmly, wanting those hips pushing harder into yours, and through the thick fog of your impending orgasm you noted not the silky material of dress slacks roiling beneath your fingers but something rougher, more tactical. You would’ve given that more thought if at that very moment his fingers hadn’t caught perfectly within your throbbing sex, making you gasp and buck your hips sharply in response.

 

 

“That’s it love, cum for me,” Ketch growled in your ear, a smirk staining his voice, his hand hot on your mouth, his arms winding tightly around your body, “Let me feel you clench around my fingers. Maybe later I’ll feed my thick cock into this beautiful sex, maybe I’ll let you cum around me while I kiss these perfect breasts,” he emphasized his words with a swipe of his forearm against the thrusting flesh of your chest, and suddenly you were cumming hard and fast, spurned by the roughness in his voice and the expert lilt of his touch. Any shame that might befall you later was forgone in place of the sweet, fervent pursuit of your blissful, smoldering orgasm, and you trembled wildly in the steely embrace of his arms as you came wetly, clenching around his fingers just as he’d commanded. While you came he whispered hot, praising quips of, “Good girl,” and “That’s it love, I know what you need,” and as much as you tried to fight it, to justify to yourself how many ways that wasn’t true, _goddamn him_ he was right.

 

 

You panted hard against his hand that was curled around your mouth, slumping exhausted against his sturdy body, raising your machete brandishing hand to the wall beside you, needing the anchor that his immense form provided to keep you grounded in the present, centered on the current predicament you found yourself in, stuck between a rock and a literal hard place. This time, however, you found it leagues more difficult not to bask in the comforting post-carnal warmth of his arms, in the pleasant huffs of his breath against the back of your neck, the solid slip of his arms around you, one hand dropping to your neck, the other still cupping your throbbing pussy.

 

 

When he slipped his fingers slowly from your clenching sex and brought them to your mouth you sucked them eagerly, lapping your wetness enthusiastically from his digits. You swear he fucking growled against your neck when you moaned softly around his fingers, his deep accented voice groaning, “Good _fucking_ girl,” against your hair. _Jesus_ , something about that posh, proper voice crooning wicked words in your ear sparked a hot, lilting, molten knot of want deep in your belly. You were beginning to suspect that this wicked man’s dirty talk would be the death of you.

 

 

“You haven’t cum since I last touched you, have you?” Ketch questioned suddenly in your ear, his voice almost jarring you from the pleasant post-orgasmic bliss you’d been reveling in, “I can tell from how goddamned _tight_ you are,” you could hear the smirk in his voice, the lustful appraisal coloring his tone, and you could tell that he already knew the goddamn answer, but apparently the prick wanted to hear you say it. Not a chance in _hell_ you’d indulge him.

 

 

“Shut the fuck up,” you groaned, though a smile was coloring your own voice, no real fire roaring in the statement, “Let’s go _kill_ something,” you growled, gripping your raised machete tighter in your fist, flexing your fingers anticipatorily around the leather of the handle. You were fresh from a toe curling, mind numbing orgasm, you weren’t alone in this momentous task anymore, you felt _sexy_ and _powerful_ and you wanted to feel some vamp heads roll.

  
But Ketch’s large, firm hand curling around your hip stopped you. The only thing that made you listen was the hopeful promise that he’d dip those naughty fingers to your keening sex once more.

 

  
“As much as I admire your zeal, love, please do allow me to show off just a smidge,” he murmured at your ear, pulling something bulky from a clip on his belt that you hadn’t noticed before. It was cylindrical and covered with runes you couldn’t identify. You’d never seen anything quite like it, and suddenly you were intensely curious about what tricks Mr. Ketch had up his sleeve.

 

 

“Lead the way,” you murmured to him, your eyes lingering on the mysterious device that glinted in the low light of the darkened hallway. You moved sideways, chest pressed against the far wall, to let him slip past you, noting with a hint of molten pleasure the way his hands lingered on your ass for just a moment longer than necessary as he shifted in front of you, taking the lead.

 

 

“Stay close,” he murmured back to you as he began to stalk from your temporary hiding place, the well concealed care thrumming in his voice making a slight smile curve your lips. He was actually concerned with whether you lived or died; something he shouldn’t give a damn about if he was truly a psychopath or if you were actually just a booty call. Not that you’d mind being a piece of ass to him, you didn’t need to _like_ the man to have amazing, mind numbingly good sex. You could use him just as much as he could use you.

 

  
And he was handsome, _good_ _Lord_ was he handsome. You had to bite back the deep sigh that threatened to fall from your lips as you watched his broad, lofty shoulders sway gently with his measured foot falls. He was a big man, but when he hunted he moved with the predatory grace of a great jungle cat; all smooth, roiling muscles and precise, measured motions. His dark, intense eyes studied the empty hallways you traversed with alert readiness, that strange device glinting ominously in his hand. It must’ve been quite an ace in his pocket if he dared come into a nest of this size without even a drop of dead man’s blood or a useful knife to speak of.

 

 

You managed to make it nearly to the heart of the encampment without being detected, a small miracle that you were fervently thankful for given that you were the only member of this dynamic duo sporting a weapon that you were sure would end these vamps, but still you just couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. Your peripheral vision was alert, keen and ready to detect any movement out of the corners of your eyes. You knew that vamps liked to hide, stalking their prey from the shadows until they were ready to pounce.

 

 

Sure enough, just as you reached the doorway that would lead you into the main part of the compound, a stray vamp jumped from a darkened patch of hallway, leaping out at Ketch with its teeth bared and claws raised. On instinct you whirled in front of him, whipping your machete with deadly precision that left the creature twitching on the floor, its head discarded a few feet away from its body.

 

 

 

“Cheers, love,” he said as he flashed you an impressed smile, nodding his head in a curt show of thanks.

 

 

“Yeah,” you huffed, nodding back once, that familiar hunt adrenaline singing through your veins, emboldening you, “I thought you were supposed to be showing off to me.”

 

 

“Soon,” he said cryptically, leaning against the doorway that led to where the vamps were cloistered, messing with some of the runes on the strange device that he held in his hands. The lines etched in deep at either end of its curved edges began to glow then, an otherworldly light emanating from the device as a faint whirring began in its bowels, parts clicking and clanking from within.

 

 

You watched with mild surprise as he tossed the device into the room, the smooth whooshing of his arm through the air punctuated a few long moments later with the loud thud of the object hitting the floor a few yards away. Between the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears you heard confused murmurs and hissings rattling from the numerous vamps that had been startled by the objects unexpected arrival. Suddenly, rich plumes of wispy smoke began to snake from the room, followed shortly by the most awful sounds of dying you’d ever heard.

 

  
“This is the only entrance to the main compound-” Ketch said, his eyes trained on the smoke, watching, anticipatory.

 

 

“I know,” you murmured, interrupting him, your own eyes busy studying the fine cut of his tactical jacket and tight fit of his black cargo pants on his delicious hips, “I do my homework.”

 

 

“Good,” he replied, amusement seeping into his voice, the smile you had begun to anticipate curving his lips a moment later, “Behead the ones that try and get away.”

 

 

You nodded, flipping your blood soaked machete in your grasp, your feet spread in a battle ready stance as you waited any fleeing vampires. The rest of the hunt was easy; you slew a handful of rapidly dying creatures, all looking much worse for wear than when you’d seen them earlier, sputtering and coughing as whatever the hell was in that device killed them painfully. It was almost too easy to justify; there was no fight, no claws or teeth, no danger. And as fucked up as it was, you _lived_ for the danger of the job.

 

 

The frown curving your lips wasn’t lost on Ketch, and as you hastily decapitated the last straggler that stumbled from the doorway he turned to you.

 

 

“It’s almost too easy, eh?” Ketch questioned, one eyebrow raised appraisingly as he gazed at you, unmasked lust glinting in his dark eyes.

 

 

“Like taking candy from a crazy, blood thirsty baby,” you replied distractedly, moving past him and into the smoke filled room, studying the nearest dead vampire with blatant interest and a hint of disgust. “What the hell is in that thing anyway?” you asked, gesturing a blood spattered shoulder to the device that sat innocently a few feet away, still spewing out noxious smoke.

 

 

“Just something the old men came up with to make us hunters job’s easier,” Ketch replied as he retrieved the device, fiddling with the runes etched around it to get the canister to close and the outpouring of smoke to cease. “They are all too gracious from their ivory towers.”

 

 

You didn’t miss the disdain in his voice, the venom that made you glance at him, studying the blatant disregard etched on his features for theses colleagues of his that he seemed to dislike so much.

 

 

“Old men,” you prodded, rising to your feet, leaving the dead vamp behind as you moved closer to him, further into the room that now served as a vampire crypt, “And just who would they be?”

 

 

“Well you’ve met one of sorts,” Ketch said, tucking the device away in his belt and moving unimpeded to the exit. You followed him, wanting to hear more about these foreign visitors, “When we were introduced at that slatternly diner so long ago. Mick was his name, if you recall.”

 

 

 _Mick_ , you made a vigorous mental note, that was the fuckers name.

 

 

“Oh right,” you murmured distractedly, biting you lip hard as you realized you could barely recall his face.

 

 

 

“He didn’t make much of an impression, eh?” Ketch asked, his tone smug, even satisfied as he glanced back at you, his heavy boots crunching on the glass strewn dirt outside the abandoned factory. You glared at his broad back, reluctant to admit that Ketch himself had made a stronger one.

 

 

“No, I remember him,” you lied easily, wanting to taunt him, needing somewhere to direct your post hunt adrenaline, “Pretty eyes,” you said dreamily as you flashed him a shit eating grin. You watched, satisfied, as his jaw clenched hard and his eyes filled with murderous intent. _Fuck_ , that hard, cold tint in his gaze shouldn’t turn you on as much as it did, and yet your sex throbbed suddenly with renewed lust, wetness rushing between your clenching thighs.

 

 

“Well then, would you like to see _him_ again?” Ketch asked as you reached his parked bike, reaching into the pack he had discarded beside the Commando to withdraw a set of shiny, black helmets, offering one to you in an outstretched arm. You blinked twice, hardly believing that you had just been given the chance to infiltrate the Death Star; to see the inner workings of these British invaders. But did you really want to poke this hornets’ nest?

 

 

It took you about the space of one heartbeat to decide, _hell yeah_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Mary Winchester.

 

 

This was Mary _freaking_ Winchester standing in front of you, looking barely a day older than the picture you’d glimpsed on Dean’s desk in the few times you’d been to the brother’s bunker, tall and pretty and badass as hell. Why the fuck hadn’t Ketch told you that they had Momma Winchester here, working with them, increasing their kill rates tenfold and looking fabulous while doing it.

 

 

To say you were thoroughly star struck was an understatement, and the shock at meeting her almost, _almost_ , overshadowed the residual lust pounding through your veins from your blessedly lengthy, close quarters motorcycle ride to the compound during which you’d spent several long hours pressed against Ketch’s warm, masculine body, arms wrapped tight around his waist, cheek pressed against the smooth leather of his bike jacket. It was like something plucked straight out of your Ketch filled day dreams. And the purr of his Norton Commando between your thighs?

 

 

_Perfect._

 

 

But this, this was something else. You’d heard of Mary’s return from Sam, who’d called you a few months back to get help on a Rugaru hunt, but seeing her in the flesh was a whole new ball game. As soon as you’d gotten a moment alone with her you’d told her how glad you were that she was back and had asked how she was.

 

The relief etched on her face when you asked made you wonder fiercely how many friends Mary actually had in this strange, new world.

 

 

Once it had been confirmed that Mick was nowhere to be found, meaning you had some time to kill, you’d begun chatting with her about the British Men of Letters toys, about your favorite hunts, your most difficult hunts, and before you knew it you were talking like old friends.

 

 

“So how did you get roped into the mission that Ketch went on tonight?” Mary asked, her blonde curls tucked behind one ear, the white and blue flannel that draped over her sturdy looking shoulders rolled up at the elbows she had leaned against the war room table that currently bore the glasses of whiskey you were sharing.

 

 

“Well it would seem that I crashed his party, but I was just doing my thing, killing vamps. Before tonight I had no idea of the grand plan to exterminate all Mid-West vampires,” you replied, sipping heartily from your whiskey before you caught the oldest Winchesters sharp blue eyes. “That fancy vamp killing device really is something else.”

 

 

“Yeah,” Mary sighed, nursing her glass between her palms, gaze flicking down to the brown liquid as if she wished it would solve all of her problems, “It really makes the hunt a hell of a lot easier.”

 

 

“Damn right,” you replied, winking as you leaned in, lowering your voice duplicitously, “But that doesn’t mean I haven’t saved Ketch’s delicious ass once or twice.”

 

 

You and Mary had just burst out into quiet laughter when the man himself strode in, still decked out in that impressive tactical gear that _did things_ to you, hot, molten _wanting_ things. “I believe you would’ve been severely hurting had it not been for me, love,” his low, accented voice thrummed, a smirk tugging at his lips. You rolled your eyes hard, shifting in your chair to face him more fully.

 

 

“Oh, please,” you snorted, cocking your hip and bracing a hand in the cradle of your waist as you glanced at him, “You ass would have been grass without me there.”

 

 

“Just as would yours have been at that warehouse a few weeks back had _I_ not been there,” he threw back at you, pouring himself a few fingers worth of whiskey and sitting across from you, his dark gaze never leaving your face.

 

 

“Congratulations,” you replied, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Do you want a medal for your efforts?”

 

  
“Do _you_?” he questioned as he sipped casually at his drink.

 

  
“Yeah, actually,” you replied, something that was equal parts annoyance and arousal firing through you, “You can engrave it with ‘Your ass is mine’,” you taunted, completing your elegant picture with air quotes, teasing him wickedly, “I’ll put it above my mantel and gaze at it while I smoke my cigars and sip my Lagavulin.”

 

 

“Good taste, my girl,” Ketch rumbled against his glass, eyes stormy and intense as he gazed at you, sipping casually, as if he wasn’t laying on the innuendo thick.

 

 

“I think that’s my cue,” Mary said then, clearing her throat gently and draining the dregs of her glass, “I’m headed to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

 

You were reluctant to see her go, especially when you noted the heavy weight that returned to her sagging shoulders as she trudged away to her barren room. You would’ve called after her if Ketch’s spellbinding voice hadn’t caught your attention once more.

 

 

“I believe we had another successful hunt tonight,” Ketch remarked, long, slender fingers rimming the edge of his glass, his eyes glinting playfully as they were trained on you.

 

 

“Yes,” you sighed, leaning backwards, draining your glass, loving the burn that slipped down your throat after the whiskey, “We most definitely did.”

 

 

Several moments of heavily laden silence passed between you, a silence filled with memories of panting breaths and seeking fingers, of promises of post hunt debauchery and hands gripping asses _hard_.

 

 

“Does that mean we should get good and snookered?” Ketch asked almost playfully, those slender fingers stilling at the edge of his glass, captivating your attention thoroughly and completely.

 

 

“Yes,” you replied after a heartbeat in which you gauged the likelihood of you fucking him tonight, “I believe it does mean that Mr. Ketch,” If you’d been a betting woman, you’d have wagered the odds of Ketch getting laid as embarrassingly high.

 

 

But, as the whiskey was poured and jackets were unbuttoned, you realized you didn’t really give a damn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again lovely readers! So I'd originally planned this as a one shot but I got so much love that I just kept writing, and I guess this is becoming a full on story! I have at least two more chapters planned out, at least one of which the Winchester brothers show up in. If anyone has opinions about this PLEASE let me know! 
> 
> As always, I sincerely hope you enjoy, and please let me know any thoughts, concerns, or comments that you have regarding this chapter! Thank you!
> 
> P.S. I usually make mood boards for my long running fics, as it helps envision the chapter better, and I got inspired so here is one for this fic!
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/158087096664/archive-of-our-own-chapter


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